and it was even said that people had come from foreign lands and
had made him enormous offers if he would go with them and sing
at concerts in the great foreign cities. Thousands of dollars he
might have earned if he had gone, but Fiddle-John knew better
than to abandon the valley of his birth, where he had been
known since his babyhood, and trust himself to the faithless
foreign world. Thousands of dollars! Only think of it! The very
thought made Fiddle-John dizzy; ten or twenty dollars would have
presented something definite to his imagination, which he would
have comprehended, but thousands of dollars was a blank enormity
which diffused itself like mist through his dazed brain. And yet
Fiddle-John could never stop thinking of the thousands of dollars
which he might have earned, if he had gone with the foreigner. If
the truth must be told, he himself would have liked well enough to
go; and it was only the persuasions of Ingeborg, his wife, which
had restrained him. “What could you do in the great foreign world,
John,” she had said to him; “you, with your want of book-learning
and your simple peasant ways? They would laugh at you, John, dear,
and that would make me cry, and we should both be miserable. And
all the little children here in the valley, what would they do
without you, and who would sing to them and tell them stories when
you were gone?”
The last argument was what decided Fiddle-John, He did not believe
that people would laugh at him in the great foreign world, but he
did believe that the children would miss him when he was gone,
and he could not bear to think of someone else sitting under the
great maple-tree at the roadside and telling them stories. For all
that, he regretted many a time that he had been soft-hearted, and
had allowed the gate of glory to be slammed in his face, as he
expressed it. He had never suspected it before; but now the thought
began to grow upon him, that he was a great man, who might have
gained honor and renown if his wife had not deprived him of the
opportunity.
Every day the valley seemed to be growing darker and narrower; the
sight of the mountains became oppressive; it was as if they weighed
upon Fiddle-John’s breast and impeded his breath. With feverish
restlessness he roamed about from farm to farm and played, until
every string on his fiddle seemed on the point of snapping.
“I am a great man,” he reflected indignantly, “and might have
earned thousands of dollars. And yet here I go and fiddle for
half-drunken boors at twenty-five cents a night.”
And to drown the voices that rose clamorously out of the depths of
his soul, he strummed the strings wildly; and the peasants whirled
madly around him, shouted, and kicked the rafters in the ceiling.
The gentleness and the mild radiance which had made the children
love him passed out of his countenance; his eyes grew restless, his
motions aimless and unsteady. Sometimes he flung back his head
defiantly and mumbled threats between his teeth; at other times he
shuffled along dejectedly, or lay under a tree, dreaming of the
great world which had forever been closed to him.
“If I had only dared!” he whispered to himself; “oh, if I had only
dared!”
At that moment someone stepped up to him and shook him by the
shoulder. “Hallo, old chap,” said the man, “you are just the fellow
I want! You are the party they call Fiddle-John?”
There was something brisk and aggressive about the stranger which
almost frightened Fiddle-John. It was easy to see that he came
from afar; for he had smartly-cut city-clothes, a tall shiny hat,
and a huge watch-chain from which half a dozen seals and trinkets
depended. Fiddle-John had never seen anything so magnificent; he
was completely dazzled. He sat half-raised upon his elbow and
stared at the stranger in mute wonder. “Well, Fiddle-John,” the
latter went on glibly; “you don’t seem very cordial to an old
friend. Or perhaps you don’t know me. Reckon I’ve changed some
since you used to tell me stories about the Ashiepattle and the
ogre who stowed his heart away for safe keeping inside of a duck
in a goose-pond, some thousands of miles off. I have often thought
of that story since. Fact is, that is just the kind of arrangement
I am after. I’ve too much heart, Fiddle-John, too much heart. My
heart is always getting me into trouble, and if I could make an
arrangement to leave it behind here in Norway, while I myself
return to America, I should like it first rate. You don’t happen
to know of any party who would be willing to keep it for me during
my absence, hey, Fiddle-John?”
The man here laughed uproariously and slapped Fiddle-John on the
shoulder.
“You are the same rum old customer you used to be, Fiddle-John,” he
said in a tone of cordial good-fellowship; “but you don’t seem as
talkative as you used to be--don’t even tell me you are glad to see
me. Now, that’s what I call hard, Fiddle-John. Don’t even know the
name of your little friend James Forrest--or--beg your pardon--Jens
Skoug, I mean to say, who used to climb on your back and listened
in rapture to your wonderful voice and your marvellous fairy tales.”
A gleam of intelligence flitted across Fiddle-John’s features, as
he heard the name Jens Skoug, and he arose with bashful hesitancy
and extended his hand to the talkative stranger. He remembered well
that Jens’ family had emigrated, some ten years ago, to the United
States, and he remembered also vividly the uncouth little creature
in skin-patched trousers and ragged jacket who had embarked, at
that time, in the great steamer that came to take the emigrants off
to Bergen. And now this little creature was a tall, dazzling man
with a silk hat and showy jewellery, and an address which a prince
might have envied. Thus reasoned Fiddle-John in his simplicity.
Such a marvellous transformation he had never in all his life
witnessed. The name James Forrest which Jens had dropped by a
deliberate accident also impressed him strangely. It seemed to add
greatly to Jens’ magnificence. A man who could afford to have such
a foreign-sounding name must indeed be a person of enterprise and
prominence. It surrounded Jens with a delightful foreign flavor
which captivated his friend even more than his brilliant talk.
“Jens,” he said, making an effort to conquer his diffidence, “you
have grown to be a great man, indeed. How could you expect me to
recognize you?”
“A great man!” exclaimed Jens, expanding agreeably under his
friend’s sincere flattery; “no, Fiddle-John, I am not a great
man--that is, not yet, Fiddle-John. But I mean to become a great
man before I die. In America, where I live, every man can become
great if he only chooses to. But I thought, being young yet,
that I could afford to spend a couple of months in opening to my
countrymen the same road to fortune which is open to myself, before
I settled down to tackle life in earnest. Fact is, Fiddle-John, as
I said before, I have too much heart. My conscience would leave me
no peace, whenever I thought of my poor countrymen who were toiling
here at home for twenty-five or forty cents a day, and scarcely
could keep body and soul together, while I could earn five and ten
dollars a day as readily as I could blow my nose. I positively
cried, Fiddle-John, cried like a girl, when I thought of you and
your small chaps and of all the other poor fellows here in the
valley who had such a hard time of it, tearing off their caps and
bowing and scraping before the parson and the judge and all the big
guns, while in America we step up to the President himself, wring
his hand and say, ‘How are you, old chap? I’ll drop in and take
pot-luck with you to-morrow, if you don’t happen to have company.’
And he, likely as not, will say to me, ‘Right welcome shall you be,
Jim; bring a couple of good fellows along with you. We don’t stand
on ceremony around the White House. Perhaps I may be able to hunt
up a consulship or a foreign mission for you, if you should happen
to be out of office and pressed for cash.’ Now, that’s what I call
good manners, Fiddle-John, and the chances are ten to one that, if
you call upon him with a note from me, he may set you up in a right
fat office, where you may cock your head at parsons and judges and
feel yourself as big as the very biggest.”
Fiddle-John listened with eager ears and open mouth to this
alluring narrative. It did not occur to him to question the truth
of what Jens said, for did not his appearance and his independent
and dazzling demeanor plainly show that he was a great and
prosperous man? And, moreover, how could he have undergone such a
startling transformation in a few years, if it had not been true,
as he said, that the President of the United States or some other
mighty personage took an interest in him. Fiddle-John had often
heard it said that in America all things were possible; and he
had himself read letters from persons who here at home had been
poor tenants or even day laborers, and who over there had become
colonels, and merchants, and legislators. Therefore, he was not
in the least surprised at the good luck which had overtaken his
former friend. He was only surprised that the thought of going to
America had never occurred to him before, and he made up his mind
on the spot to sell his cow, his pig, and his three sheep, and take
the first ship for New York. He could scarcely stop to bid Jens
Skoug good-by, so eager was he to rush home and communicate his
resolution to his wife and children. He foresaw that he would meet
with opposition from Ingeborg; but he steeled his heart against all
her entreaties and vowed to himself that this time he would have
his own way. Was it not enough that she had once nearly ruined his
life? Should he permit her again to snatch the chance of greatness
away from him?
He was flushed and breathless when he reached his little cottage up
under the mountain-wall. It had never looked so mean and miserable
to him as it did at this moment. The walls were propped up on the
north and west sides with long beams, and dry, brownish grass from
last year grew in tufts along the roof-tree and drooped down over
the eaves. His two sons, Alf and Truls, were playing bear with
their little sister Karen, who was seven years old. But they rose
hurriedly when they saw their father, and brushed the sand from the
knees of their trousers. There was something in his bearing and in
the expression of his face which vaguely alarmed them. He stooped
no more in walking, but strode along proudly with uplifted head.
“Boys,” he cried, joyously, “run in and tell your mother, to-morrow
we are going to America!” Ingeborg, who was just coming across the
yard with a new-born lamb in her arms, paused in consternation, and
gazed with a frightened expression at her husband.
“What has happened to you, John?” she asked, gently. “I thought
that matter about the foreigner was settled long ago.”
“I tell you, no!” he shouted, wildly; “it is not settled. It never
will be settled as long as there is breath left in my body. This
time I mean to have my own way. Jens Skoug has come back from
America, and he says that America is the place for me. I knew it
all along, and whether you will follow me or not, I am going.”
“Follow you, John? Yes, if go you must, then I will follow you.
But to America I will not go willingly, unless I know what we are
to do there, and how we are to make our living. It is a long, long
distance, John, across the great ocean; they speak a language there
which neither you nor I understand.”
Fiddle-John turned impatiently on his heel, as if to say that he
knew all that twaddle from of old; but Ingeborg, giving the lamb to
Alf, went up to him, laid her hand on his arm, and said:
“You and I have lived together for so many years, John, and we love
each other too well ever to be happy away from each other. Don’t
let us speak harsh words. They rankle in the bosom and cause pain,
long after they are spoken. If you must go to America, I will go
with you. But I have a feeling that I shall never get there alive.
I beg of you, don’t decide rashly and don’t believe all that Jens
Skoug tells you. He was not a truthful child, and I doubt if he has
grown up to be a good man. Let us say no more about it to-night. We
will sleep on it, and see how it will look to us to-morrow.”
Fiddle-John was not a bad fellow; on the contrary, he was quite
soft-hearted and easily moved. This wife of his had toiled in
poverty and ill-health all her life long, and he had never offered
to lift a finger to help her. Yet she loved him, accepting her lot
meekly, and never uttering a word of reproach against him. He had
never observed before how thin and worn she looked, how hollow her
cheeks were, and how large her eyes. He felt for the first time
in his life a pang of remorse. He had not been a good husband, he
thought; not as good as he might have been. But then he was a great
man, and great men were never the best of husbands. And when he
reached America, and his greatness became generally recognized,
and fortune began to smile upon him, then he would shower kindness
upon her, and she would be rewarded a thousand-fold for all she had
suffered. Surely, he would turn over a new leaf--in America.
Thus Fiddle-John consoled himself, when his conscience grew uneasy.
When only they got to America, he reasoned, then everything would
be right. He would have started without delay if Ingeborg’s health
had not failed so rapidly that the doctor positively forbade her to
think of travelling. The look of suffering and sweet forbearance
upon her face seemed a perpetual reproach to Fiddle-John, and he
roamed restlessly from one end of the valley to the other, playing,
singing, and telling his stories, in order to earn money for the
voyage, he said to his sons; but, in reality, to escape from the
unspoken reproach of his wife’s countenance. But the day soon came
when he needed no longer to flee from her presence. One bright
spring day, just as the snow was melting, and the bare spots on the
meadows steamed in the sun, Ingeborg closed her weary eyes forever;
and a few days later she was laid to rest in the shadow of the old
church down on the headland, where the song-thrush warbles through
the brief Arctic summer night.
II.
Down in the valley the Easter bells were chiming; the bell-strokes
trembled through the clear, sun-steeped air. There was commotion in
the valley, too, in spite of the fact that it was Easter Sunday.
Out in the middle of the fiord lay a huge black steamer, which
panted and shrieked, as if it were in distress, and sent volumes of
gray smoke out of its chimneys. Around about little black fragments
of coal-dust were drizzling through the air and swimming on the
water; and the gulls which kept whirling about the smoke-stacks
were quite shocked when they caught the reflections of themselves
in the tide; with wild screams they plunged into the fiord. They
probably mistook themselves for crows.
The pier, which broke the line of the beach at the point of the
headland, was thronged with men, women, and children. The men were
talking earnestly together; most of the women were weeping, and the
children were gazing impatiently toward the steamboat and tugging
at their mother’s skirts. Some twenty or thirty boats, heavily
laden with chests and boxes, lay at the end of the pier; and one
after another, as it was filled with people, put off and was rowed
out to the steamer. Only the old folk remained behind; with heavy
hearts and tottering steps they walked up the sloping beach and
stood at the roadside, straining their eyes to catch a last glimpse
of the son or daughter, whom they were never to see again. Some
flung themselves down in the sand and sobbed aloud; others stooped
over the weeping ones and tried to console them.
At last there was but one little group left on the pier; and that
was composed of Fiddle-John and his three children. Jens Skoug,
the emigration agent, was standing in a boat, shouting to them
to hurry, and the boys were scrambling down the slippery stairs
leading to the water, while the father followed more deliberately,
carrying the little girl in his arms.
There was a Babel of voices on board; and poor Fiddle-John and
his sons, who had never heard such noise in their lives before,
stood dazed and bewildered, and had scarcely presence of mind
to get out of the way of the iron chains and pulleys which were
hoisting on board enormous boxes of merchandise, horses, cattle,
pigs, and a variety of other commodities. It was not until they
found themselves stowed away in a dark corner of the steerage,
upon a couple of shelves, by courtesy styled berths, which had
been assigned to them, that they were able to realize where they
were, and that they were about to leave the land of their fathers
and plunge blindly into a wild and foreign world which they had
scarcely in fancy explored.
The first day on board passed without any incident. The next day,
they reached Hamburg, and were transferred to a much larger and
more comfortable steamer, named the Ruckert, and before evening
the low land of North Germany traced itself only as a misty line
on the distant horizon. Night and day followed in their monotony;
Russian Mennonites, Altenburg peasants, and all sorts of queer and
outlandish-looking people passed in kaleidoscopic review before
the eyes of the astonished Norsemen. It was the third day at sea,
I think, when they had got somewhat accustomed to their novel
surroundings, that a little incident occurred which was fraught
with serious consequences to Fiddle-John’s family.
The gong had just sounded for dinner, and the emigrants were
hurrying down-stairs with tin cups and bowls in their hands. The
children were themselves hungry, and needed no persuasion to follow
the general example. They unpacked their big tin cups, which
looked like wash-basins, and took their seats at an interminably
long table, while the stewards went around with buckets full of
steaming soup, which they poured into each emigrant’s basin, as it
was extended to them, by means of great iron dippers. Many of the
Russians were either so hungry or so ill-mannered that they could
not wait until their turn came, but rushed forward, clamoring for
soup in hoarse, guttural tones; and one of the stewards, after
having shouted to them in German to take their places at the
tables, finally, by way of argument, gave one of them a blow on the
head with his iron dipper. Then there arose a great commotion, and
everybody supposed that the angry Mennonites would have attacked
the offending steward. But instead of that, the crowd scattered and
quietly took their places, as they had been commanded. They were an
odd lot, those Mennonites, thought the Norse boys, who did not know
that their religion forbade them to fight, and compelled them to
pocket injuries without resentment.
Next to Alf, on the same bench, sat a swarthy boy, fourteen or
fifteen years old, with yellow cheeks and large black eyes. He
had a thin iron chain about his wrist and seemed every now and
then to direct his attention to something under the table. Alf
concluded that, in all probability, he had his bundle of clothes
or his trunk hidden under his feet. But he was not long permitted
to remain in this error. Just as the steward approached them and
extended the long-handled dipper, filled with soup, a fierce growl
was heard under the bench, and a half-grown black bear-cub rushed
out and made a plunge for his legs. The frightened steward made
a leap, which had the effect of upsetting the soup-pail over his
assailant’s head.
A wild roar of pain followed, and everybody jumped on tables and
benches to see the sport; while the Savoyard boy who owned the bear
darted forward, his eyes flashing with anger, and hurled a flood of
unintelligible imprecations at the knight of the soup-pail. There
was a sudden change of tone, as he stooped down over his scalded
and dripping pet, and, showering endearing names upon it, hugged it
to his bosom.
The emigrants jeered and shouted, the waiters swore, and the
purser, who had been summoned to restore order, elbowed his way
ruthlessly through the crowd until he reached the author of the
tumult.
“How do you dare, you insolent beggar, to bring a bear into the
steerage?” he cried, seizing the boy by the collar, and shaking
him. “Who permitted you to bring such a dangerous beast----”
His harangue was here suddenly interrupted by the bear, which
calmly rose on its hind legs and, showing its teeth in an
unpleasant manner, prepared to resent such disrespectful language.
The purser took to his heels, while the steerage rang with jeers
and laughter, and the Savoyard had all he could do to prevent
his friend from pursuing him. The Norse boys, whose sympathy was
entirely with the bear and his master, quite forgot their hunger in
their excitement over the stirring incident; and when the Savoyard,
feeling that the steerage was scarcely a safe place for him after
what had occurred, mounted the stairs, dragging his bear after him,
they could not resist the temptation to follow him at a respectful
distance. But when they saw him crouching down behind the big
smokestack and gazing timidly about him while he wiped the bear’s
head and face with his sleeve, they could not conquer the impulse
to make the acquaintance of so distinguished and interesting a
personage. They accordingly sidled up slowly, holding their sister
between them, and were soon face to face with the Savoyard.
“What is your name?” asked Truls with a boldness which raised him
immensely in his brother’s esteem.
The Savoyard shook his head.
“What do people call you when they speak to you?” Truls repeated,
raising his voice and drawing a step nearer.
“_Non capisco. Je ne sais pas_,” answered the boy in Italian and
French, giving them the choice of the only two languages he knew.
“Capisco,” Truls went on confidently in his Norse dialect; “that is
a very funny name. I am afraid you don’t understand me. It wasn’t
the bear’s name I asked for; it was your own.”
The Savoyard shrugged his shoulders expressively, then poured out a
torrent of speech which bewildered his Norse friends exceedingly.
If the bear had opened its mouth and addressed them in the ursine
language, it would not have succeeded in being more unintelligible.
“You are a very funny chap,” Truls remarked with a discouraged air.
“Why don’t you talk like a Christian?”
He was determined to make no more advances to so irrational a
creature, and was about to lead the way back to the dinner-table,
when the arrival of the purser and the third officer of the ship
again arrested his attention. The purser had evidently been hunting
for the Savoyard; for, as he caught sight of him, he made an
exclamation in German and called out to the third officer:
“There is the vagabond! Make him understand, please, that his bear
must be shot and that he must get out of the way. He has taken
out no ticket for his beast and we don’t take that kind of freight
gratis!”
The third officer, who spoke French fluently, explained the purport
of the purser’s remarks to the Savoyard, but in a gentle and kindly
manner which almost deprived them of their cruel meaning. The boy,
however, made no motion to stir, but remained calmly sitting, with
his arm thrown over the bear’s neck and one hand playing with his
paws.
The officer, seeing that his words had no effect, repeated his
remark with greater emphasis. A startled look in the boy’s eyes
gave evidence that he was beginning to comprehend. But yet he
remained immovable.
“Get out of the way, I tell you!” cried the purser, drawing a
revolver from his hip-pocket and pointing it at the bear’s head.
“I have orders to kill this beast, and I mean to do it now. Quick,
now, I don’t want to hurt you!”
The boy gazed for a moment with a fascinated stare at the muzzle
of the terrible weapon, then sprang up and flung himself over the
bear, covering it with his own body. The animal, not understanding
what all this ado was about, took it to mean a romp, and began to
lick his master’s face and to claw him with his limp paws.
“Well, I have given you fair warning!” the purser went on,
excitedly, as he vainly tried to find an exposed vital spot on the
bear at which he could fire. “If you don’t look out, you will have
to take the consequences.” A large crowd had now gathered about
them, and a loud grumble of displeasure made itself heard round
about. The purser began to perceive that the sentiment was against
him, and that it would scarcely be safe for him to execute his
threat. Yet he found it inconsistent with his dignity to retire
from the contest, and he was just pausing to deliberate when, all
of a sudden, a small fist struck his wrist and the pistol flew
out of his hand and dropped over the gunwale into the sea. A loud
cheer broke from the crowd. The purser stood utterly discomfited,
scarcely knowing whether he should be angry with his small
assailant or laugh at him. He would, perhaps, have done the latter
if the cheering of the people and their hostile attitude toward him
had not roused his temper.
“Bravo, Tom Thumb!” they cried. “At him again! don’t be afraid of
the brute because he has got brass buttons on his coat.”
“Good for you, Ashiepattle!” the Norwegians shouted; “go it again!
We’ll stand by you!”